The Wizard's Daughter, and Other Stories

Transcriber's Note
Spelling, punctuation and inconsistencies in the original book have been retained.

There had been a norther during the day, and at sunset the valley, seen from Dysart's cabin on the mesa, was a soft blur of golden haze. The wind had hurled the yellow leaves from the vineyard, exposing the gnarled deformity of the vines, and the trailing branches of the pepper-trees had swept their fallen berries into coral reefs on the southerly side.
A young man with a delicate, discontented face sat on the porch of the Dysart claim cabin, looking out over the valley. A last gust of lukewarm air strewed the floor with scythe-shaped eucalyptus-leaves, and Mrs. Dysart came out with her broom to sweep them away.
She was a large woman, with a crease at her waist that buried her apron-strings, and the little piazza creaked ominously as she walked about. The invalid got up with a man's instinctive distrust of a broom, and began to move away.
Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Palmerston, she said, waving him back into his chair with one hand, and speaking in a large, level voice, as if she were quelling a mob,— don't disturb yourself; I won't raise any dust. Does the north wind choke you up much?
Oh, no, answered the young fellow, carelessly; it was a rather more rapid change of air than I bargained for, but I guess it's over now.
Sick folks generally think the north wind makes them nervous. Some of them say it's the electricity; but I think it's because most of 'em's men-folks, and being away from their families, they naturally blame things on the weather.
Mrs. Dysart turned her ample back toward her hearer, and swept a leaf-laden cobweb from the corner of the window.
The young man's face relaxed.
I don't think it made me nervous, he said. But then, I'm not very ill. I'm out here for my mother's health. She threatened to go into a decline if I didn't come.